If Faraday ends up introducing him to Henrietta, it won't go over well. He doubts that she'd understand the sharp jealousy that he'd pour into his words and it's not like he can tell her to stay away from Faraday because he has no claim, so maybe it's best if they stay acquaintances from afar, before something happens.
Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
Faraday takes a sip from his own glass, and— grudgingly, he admits it is the top shelf stuff. Not exactly the type you offer to cowboys and gamblers haunting the corners of your establishment. With the payment from Rose Creek, Faraday could have afforded it, but why would he want to when the shitty stuff gets you just as drunk and in half the time?
He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
Vasquez wishes that Faraday's answer didn't get him so annoyed. "Fine," he snaps back, snippy and annoyed. He drains back half of his glass of whiskey, glaring at Faraday from over it, not sure why he's upset that Faraday doesn't care, so why should he?
When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
Vasquez’s snappy response makes Faraday bristle, and he straightens in his chair a little in response. It’s petulant, he knows. It’s childish, that the way Vasquez speaks to him makes him want to gear up for a fight. It’s hardly the first time Vasquez has used that tone on him, and when they’re on the road, it usually garners little more than a snort from Faraday. But here, with the quiet hum of voices around them, with the way something prickles in Faraday’s gut – the source and meaning of which is completely lost on Faraday – it only serves to jab at the ugly thing already festering in him.
It’s both a relief and a giant disappointment when Vasquez is called away by his new “friend,” and Faraday grits his teeth with irritation. He throws back most of his glass – the flavor wasted on him, considering he was always more fond of drinking to get drunk, rather than drinking for flavor – and pours himself another share. He waits, glaring balefully at the doors to the kitchen, worry spiking sharply with how long it takes for Vasquez to return. They still had to be careful, regardless of the way they’re hissing at one another like wet cats; if that infuriating bastard got himself into trouble, Faraday would never forgive himself for allowing it to happen.
But Vasquez returns, two plates laden with food, and Faraday can’t help but eye it all warily, gaze flicking to the kitchen, when the barkeep makes his own exit. Is it his imagination, or does the man look slightly disappointed? And is it his imagination, or does the man cast Faraday an annoyed look, like he were some stone in the road impeding the other man’s progress? Faraday, in his usual way, working solely on reflex, casts the other man a bright, winning smile, which seems to shake the barkeep out of whatever mood he had fallen into.
“That new friend of yours don’t look too happy,” Faraday says, voice carefully idle, as he plucks up the roll from the proffered plate.
Absently, Vasquez now has to make a decision to tell the truth or not. Walking away from the table and getting food in his stomach has calmed him somewhat, but even so, he's only a little tipsy and usually, he leans heavy on liquor to give him this courage. In the end (after two biscuits and some meat), he's warm and content and decides that he's going to just say it.
They're already being snippy at one another, maybe if they do end up fighting or having troubles, it can all be at once before it gets resolved, instead of another fight at another time. "Same reason your Henrietta looked disappointed when you left town yesterday, probably," he replies, and though he might feel courageous to speak like this, his head is bowed down and his gaze is fixed on his fingers prying open a piece of bread.
Not so courageous when it comes to this after all.
Eventually, he peers up from his food so that he can reach for the whiskey, adding a splash to his glass so he can wet down the food. "His name is Josiah, he was very ... welcoming," Vasquez decides on the word for it. "That's all." His actions should speak for themselves, though. Instead of upstairs with Josiah in some back supply room, he's at the table eating dinner with Faraday. That's the choice he's made, and Faraday should be able to see that, even if sometimes, Vasquez suspects the man of overlooking the very obvious.
The response draws Faraday’s gaze back to Vasquez, and his eyes narrow, trying to puzzle out what that complaint means. Vasquez seems awful sour about Henrietta, for reasons Faraday still can’t quite figure out. He had assumed, yesterday, that the other man was envious of Faraday’s opportunity to enjoy the company of lovely women, but now, though, that hardly seems the case; if it were, then Vasquez would surely be more bitter with Faraday than with the saloon girl, as he currently seems to be.
He chews the words over, arching an eyebrow with the emphasis that Vasquez gives the word “welcoming,” and after a second or two, Faraday rocks back a little with sudden understanding.
“... Ah,” is about all he can manage, caught off-guard by the realization. He peers across the table, trying to study Vasquez’s face. A little difficult to do, with the way the other man has his head bowed.
“You... weren’t interested?” and he asks it as levelly as he can. The answer shouldn’t interest him as much as it does, but for whatever reason, he finds himself waiting a little anxiously for the response.
Digging out his box of matches, he fiddles with them to keep his hands busy, thinking that no one would ever suspect this wary and almost nervous man to be a wanted outlaw, so maybe this conversation works in his favour. "Maybe sometime before, yes, I would have been interested," he hears himself shape the words before he takes the time to think about how Faraday will react to them, but they're out now.
He might as well finish speaking. "Things are different now," he says, glancing up at Faraday when he finds some strength. Though, he's not so sure why things are so different. He'd asked for the oil, thinking to have it for something just like this, but the minute a proposition lands at his feet and all he'd thought was, I'd rather spend the night playing cards with Faraday. Even if nothing ever happened, he'd rather be here.
Fighting and hissing at each other and taunting and teasing, this is where he wants to be. Shrugging his shoulder, he lets it fall, wondering why he's so wary when this would have come to light eventually.
Well, not all of it, but this part, where his preferences sometimes lie, that part, he thinks was inevitable. His feelings for Faraday? Not so likely to come out so easy. "Sometimes I'm interested in pretty Henriettas, with their soft curves and pretty eyes and smiles, who can make you feel good. Sometimes, it's a Josiah, who can pin you down and make you feel alive and strong and also good. Different good." His stomach roiling a little, he sets his plate in front of him to switch to a cigarette, as if he can somehow smoke his nerves away.
Faraday's always been good about keeping his emotions off his face – a necessity for how often he finds himself at card tables, making his living on lying through his teeth. He puts it to good use now, listening as Vasquez nervously works his way through his explanation.
Things are different now, Vasquez says, and Faraday wonders if he means the bounty on his head, or if he means the company he keeps, or if he means Faraday, in particular. And he wonders, more than that, if Vasquez finds it a hindrance. Wouldn't be the first time Faraday's made a nuisance of himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time his presence had been an unwelcome one; if Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he'd admit that he's suspected Vasquez would eventually tire of him.
(Most folks do.)
Vasquez's preferences hardly surprise him. Traveling as much as he has, Faraday's met more than a few men who shared those same particular interests. Faraday thinks he knows what he likes – dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp wit and a clever tongue. Like Henrietta, whose bell-like laughter rings out with the men she's amusing at their table. Like Maria, months and months ago, with her clever hands in a darkened room. Like Ethel before her, with a voice like a nightingale, singing in a crowded saloon.
He's not sure why he feels that bitter twinge in his gut, why something rakes at the back of his ribs when Faraday glances over at Josiah, busying himself with another order. He keeps it from showing, though, that mask of ease and vague amusement clinging to his face.
"Why not indulge?" is what Faraday hears himself asking, even if he wants to kick himself for it.
Vasquez's eyes widen for the briefest of moments and it takes all of his attention not to let his cigarette fall out of his fingers when Faraday asks that. He would have to zero in on the one terrible question that's bound to lead them down an awkward path. Faraday knows him well enough to know when he lies, so he knows that he can't win by presenting lies.
What he can do is try and aggravate Faraday until he gets so angry, so furious, that maybe he forgets the question to begin with. He keeps asking himself the same question, why he won't go upstairs and indulge, and he thinks that he knows why.
Strangely, in the face of options lying and enraging Faraday, Vasquez opts instead for the truth. "I'm tired of something empty," is what he says, feeling exhausted. "Just as much as responsibility weights me down and scares me, Rose Creek and what happened showed me that if I die tomorrow, then I die without knowing what so many others do." Then again, he knows some of it, because he knows what he feels. He just doesn't have the experience of it to warm him on cold nights out on the road, aching with loneliness and touch-starved apart from when Faraday indulges him.
"Josiah, Henrietta, they're not what I want," he says, shaking his head vigorously as he smokes his cigarette, stretching his legs a little as if he's debating an escape he's going to make. "That's all, querido, leave it be," he coaxes tiredly, even though he suspects that's the last thing Faraday will do. "Maybe, sometime, after a fight, I will be so pent up and riled, then I will let someone take me in a back room." He shrugs as he says it. "Tonight? It's very rude to bring a lover back to a shared room, isn't it," he adds, setting aside his cigarette so he can stuff his face with food before he says anything more.
Faraday can see the way gears turn in Vasquez’s head. Faraday had framed the question as a suggestion – You should go have some fun while the getting’s good – but the instant the words had left his mouth, he had wanted to go bang his head against a wall, or to bury himself into a hole so deep the sunlight might never reach him.
(Because suddenly, he was worried that Vasquez might change his mind, might nod decisively and seek out Josiah’s company, as Faraday had proposed. The thought that Vasquez might say yes made his stomach churn for reasons he can hardly identify.)
Instead, Vasquez answers the question as Faraday had posed it to him. Often, Faraday is hardly concerned with how awkward his probing questions can be, but that was typically because he knew it wouldn’t chase him beyond the edges of town. This time, though, that bare snippet of honest, of earnestness, stuns Faraday into silence, and he stares at Vasquez from across the table.
He’s not sure he ever knew about Vasquez’s fear of responsibility, though Faraday surely relates to it – that strange, heaviness of knowing someone else depends on you, that weight of another person’s life resting on your shoulders. Faraday was certain that on the off-chance that he survived the fight in Rose Creek, he would surely shuck that yoke. But he hasn’t, because he’s still willingly sitting across from Vasquez, isn’t he?
At length, his gaze drops to his plate – still half-full with food, because the conversation has distracted him, has stolen his appetite. He frowns for a second or two before dragging his gaze up to Vasquez, and as the other man suspected, Faraday doesn’t leave it alone.
“What’s there to know?” and he asks it with obvious curiosity, head tilting a little as he watches Vasquez. “Seems to me you’ve been doin’ just fine for yourself.”
He's really going to make Vasquez talk about this. Here he'd thought that he could escape, that it wouldn't actually come down to this, but then Faraday has to go and talk about what it is that Vasquez is missing out on. He could write a list, but the first and last point would be about the man sitting across from him.
Vasquez enjoys his head where it is, of course, so he's not going to do that. Still, he's going to have to say something or end up storming out and he's still eating, so he's not leaving until he's had his fill. "My parents, they had love," he says, sharing something that he hasn't told anyone. "To my father, my mother was his corazon, his everything. No matter what was taken from us, they had each other and they had me and my sisters. I grew up scared of that, because why would you want a person that you could never escape."
Then he'd met someone to make him realize it just takes the right person. He hates that he can't turn it off, hates that he still wants it.
"Sex is easy," he says dismissively, "giving your whole heart to someone and having them hold it in turn, keep them warm, love them," he exhales, thinking that it's not a life he'll ever get. "I don't know that. The best I've ever done is ..." Well, the best he's ever done is here, now. Settled by Faraday's bedside and waiting for him to heal, putting his hands on him to heal him, taunting and teasing him until he's falling over with laughter.
Shrugging, he lets that sentence fall away. "You're telling me you never wanted to be with someone as more than just sex?" he asks, even though he wishes he hadn't, because he's sure he won't like the answer, no matter what it is.
He had expected Vasquez to snap and ignore him – as he tended to do – but either because he finds Faraday’s questioning annoying enough, or because he doesn’t actually mind speaking on this, he answers. Faraday watches him, studying the other man’s face. More of that honesty, and Faraday is hardly used to anyone being forthcoming with him (even if he’s unaware that Vasquez is holding back a fair bit).
Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”
Vasquez is relieved to hear about a story so far in the past that it bears no potential on Faraday deciding that he wants to seek that out himself and leave him. For Vasquez, being lovesick with unrequited feelings means nothing changes and he stays. For Faraday to fall in love with someone else means that he goes back to being on his own.
It's a miserable, painful possibility, and one that he's not looking forward to. "You weren't so charming then?" Vasquez can't help but tease with a huff, finishing the last of the food on his plate. "Your life would've been so different, I think, if she'd taken you in. Maybe you would be a doting husband, a father, with no adventure in his life at all."
Despite the private conversation, Josiah doesn't seem to read any tension between them, drifting over to clean the plate. Despite Vasquez's rejection earlier, he seems to be weathering it well enough, even if he's treating Vasquez a little like Faraday doesn't exist. "Taste good, doesn't it, handsome? Or should I say guapo?" he adds, teasing and pitched in a lower tone, trying to seem exotic and flirtatious by using the Spanish, a language he clearly knows given the way his mouth forms around the word.
As Vasquez freezes up, he doesn't think that it had been quiet enough, because there's no way Faraday didn't catch that. It's just one of the nicknames, but he has a terrible feeling that it's enough of a glance to get the gist.
"Very good food," he replies, brusque. "Do you want help with the dishes? I'll help," he decides, getting up and reaching out to take Faraday's plate, regardless of what's left on it, piling the dishes in his arms and leaving a befuddled Josiah standing there in his wake while Vasquez carts the dishes to the kitchen he'd seen before to escape what he's dreading comes next.
Vasquez’s teasing does well to ease away some of the tense air between them, and Faraday can’t help but bark out a laugh. If Ethel had bothered giving him the time of day, Faraday still doubts his ability to settle down. He’s always been struck by a particular kind of wanderlust, a need for adventure – a feeling he’s nursed ever since he was growing into his limbs, trying to enlist for the war despite being years too young.
His lips part to say as much, to tell Vasquez that he doesn’t have a single nerve in him capable of doting, but the infamous Josiah appears at that moment. Faraday schools his expression into something neutral and light – the usual mask he wears at card tables – even if it’s largely lost on the barkeep, considering he’s hardly looking Faraday’s way. Faraday continues to watch Josiah warily, though, vigilant even if his posture betrays none of it.
That changes in an instant, though, when those words slip past Josiah’s tongue, and Faraday’s gaze snaps to Vasquez in an instant – just in time to see how the other man freezes like he’s caught in the sights of a gun. Faraday’s mind races as Vasquez makes his hasty escape, still maintaining that relaxed attitude even if Josiah looks every bit as confounded as Faraday feels.
The two of them remain in silence for a long spell, staring at the kitchen where Vasquez had retreated, and Faraday breathes out a quiet laugh.
“Well, that was odd,” he says easily, shaking his head. He glances up at Josiah, flashing him a bright smile – his gambler smile, the smile he puts on when he’s trying to earn trust, just before he betrays it by swindling his marks out of their hard-earned money.
“You know Spanish, huh? Don’t think our mutual friend gets many compliments in his native tongue.”
Josiah is still staring after Vasquez, a little like he's debating whether it's even worth it to keep making an attempt on him, but finally, Faraday's voice registers and he's drawn away with a disappointed look on his face, knowing that it absolutely shows. "Yeah, learned it when I was younger, on account of so many patrons rolling through that speak it. Usually, it works better than this."
He looks lost, absently, as if he's wondering why calling a man handsome in his native tongue hasn't gone over so well, especially when there'd been a hint of something before.
"You don't speak it, then?" Josiah asks, judgmental and accusatory, like it's a failing on Faraday's part to keep Vasquez's company and not.
Faraday only smiles in the face of that accusation – the same one he’d wear when men would point fingers and accuse him of cheating at cards.
“Picking up a little, here and there,” he offers calmly, even if he silently resents the tone the man has taken with him. Faraday’s used to some terrible service, but this hits a little closer to home than he appreciates. “Our mutual friend don’t teach me much.”
Mostly because Faraday willfully butchered what little he did know to get a rise out of the other man; the good Josiah hardly needs to know that, though, and Faraday shrugs his shoulders.
“I’ve heard a few words, though. Not sure what they mean.” Faraday pauses, as if struck by an idea, and brightens a little. “Say, what if I asked you to translate a few for me? You sound like you’re plenty knowledgeable, and I’d be much obliged for the help.”
Even though there's a fair amount of praise and Josiah seems to appreciate that, it doesn't seem to edge out the wariness and suspicion. "I suppose that I could help you out," he says even though he seems to be warring with helping Faraday to look good to Vasquez and not wanting to because of what he might be translating.
"What is it you need translations for?" There's a look on his face that seems to anticipate that it'll be insults.
Josiah does seem to tense a little, like he already suspects the words Faraday wants translated are more than that.
“Just a few words,” Faraday reassures, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. He identifies that suspicion on Josiah’s face easily enough – far too many men have worn that particular look around Faraday for him to not recognize it near instantly. But there’s also an undertone of something else. Caution, maybe? Wariness?
There’s not time enough to parse it out right now, though, considering Vasquez can be back at any moment, or that Josiah could decide to chase after him or return to tending the bar. So Faraday keeps his relaxed, easy grin on his face, head tilting slightly.
“Just a few words,” he repeats, and he readjusts his hand, ticking off the words with his fingers as he goes. “Querido. Cariño. Nene. Know what they mean?”
The minute the words pass by Faraday's lips, Josiah's shoulders seem to curve forward in on themselves, like he's hearing the last thing he'd wanted to hear. Sourly, he looks like he's having a private and internal war with himself, because as much as he wants to be able to believe that this is just for Faraday to go off charming someone else, he knows it's not that.
Some friend, is the clear thought that's running through his mind. "Darling. Dear. Sweetheart. Baby." The response is flat, with no emotion in his eyes. What little geniality he might have had has evaporated now that he has to give these translations.
Of course, whatever Josiah is feeling soon will become eclipsed. Vasquez has finished with the dishes, having stalled as long as he can, but he's on his way back when he hears Josiah speak in a hollow tone. "Must be someone pretty fond of you, if they're using endearments like that."
There's little to no guessing about what they're talking about, which gives Vasquez only a few options. He makes sure they can hear him coming with the drag of his boots, forcing himself to ignore his fear about what's coming next, deciding that it can't blow up in his face if he doesn't look at Faraday.
"Everything is clean," he says. "Thank you for the food," he says to Josiah, warmth in his voice despite the half-murderous look on his face for deciding to go and translate all those words for Faraday. He digs out a few coins to leave on the table, heart racing and head pounding as he tries to figure out his best route of escape -- get to the horse, load up, ride before he can get shot. Or maybe if he gets back to the room at the inn, there will be too many around for anything to happen. "I'm tired," is what he says, gesturing with little energy for the key. "I want to go lie down. Give me the key?"
Faraday’s ability to keep a straight face is near infamous to anyone who’s played against him, and it’s a skill he puts to good use at all hours of the day, almost as often as he breathes or blinks.
But the instant Josiah offers that explanation, Faraday’s expression goes slack, eyes wide and lips parting with surprise. To anyone else, it might be funny how he suddenly looks as though he’s been struck – hell, if he saw anyone looking the way he does right now, Faraday would likely howl with laughter – but there’s hardly anything funny about this, he thinks.
The truth is, Faraday doesn’t know how he feels, except like the ground has suddenly opened beneath him, and he’s spinning and falling reeling with nothing to latch onto.
Even with Vasquez making his reentrance obvious, Faraday still jumps a little when he arrives, startled like a child caught stealing sweets. He ought to thank Josiah for his assistance, just for the sake of politeness, but Faraday has completely forgotten the bartender is even there, focused as he is on Vasquez.
For a long moment, Faraday gapes at Vasquez like he’s a complete stranger – and at this point, he might as well be, for as how thoroughly turned around as Faraday’s feeling. His request for the key goes unanswered for a long moment, the words sitting atop Faraday’s mind like oil on water. When the question finally sinks in, Faraday slowly reaches for the key in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the warmed metal in a near boneless grasp.
He starts to reach across the table to hand it over, but instead, he draws it close to himself, gripping it a little more tightly. He licks his lips, trying desperately to find his voice.
“I think I’ll go with you,” Faraday croaks out – apparently he found his voice in a brittle, hollow state, given how he sounds. But now that he’s made the decision, Faraday lurches to his feet, his chair’s legs squealing and clattering as they scrape across the wooden floor.
The noise startles him out of his stupor, at least a little, and when he comes back to himself, he stares hard at Vasquez. And in a tone that brooks no argument, he says, “You and me are overdue for a talk.”
And with that, he turns to head back to the inn, expecting Vasquez to follow.
Vasquez has faced down much worse things than what's in front of him, surely, but right now, he can't bring himself to think of any of them. The way Faraday looks at him makes him want to flinch, but he remains steady and true, doesn't let the wariness or the devastation show on his face, because he knows what comes next.
His cowardly instincts tell him to run when Faraday's back is to him, but he'll never make it out of town like that without calling attention to himself and between an uncomfortable ending of a friendship and being shot in the back, he'll still take the former.
Trudging towards the inn as slowly as he can, Vasquez chides himself mentally. He should have known this day would come, because he couldn't make himself shut up when it had come to those stupid nicknames for Faraday. He'd hidden behind the Spanish as he let his affections flow freely, hidden under a thin guise. It's time to face the consequences of this, but he has to wonder if the translations haven't unearthed everything else.
All those things that Faraday hadn't been seeing because he wasn't looking -- Vasquez's jealousy, his willingness to get his hands on him to help, the pathetic way he stares at him in the embers of a fire. Smarter men would keep a hand on their gun, but Vasquez feels chastised and guilty, but not ashamed and not regretful. While Faraday knows now, Vasquez wouldn't change anything. Shame it has to come to an end like this.
Ignoring the woman at the inn when he arrives, ten steps behind Faraday, he takes the stairs and follows him into the room where he makes a point of unclipping his gun belt and setting it on the table. It's a deliberate showing, a pointed gesture that says he's an unarmed man. From there, he sinks down to sit on the corner of the bed, burying his head in his hands while he waits for Faraday to start shouting.
"So?" he prompts, hoarse and wanting to get this over with. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."
Faraday is still reeling from all of it, and his mind is abuzz with activity. Folks often accused Faraday of being empty-headed, of never thinking things through – which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sure, he had a tendency to ignore good sense, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it, first, before grinning right in its face.
They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”
Edited (i always forget to close html tags.....) 2018-01-03 19:23 (UTC)
Vasquez glances up when he hears Faraday's hesitation near the door. For a brief, blinding, and bright moment, he thinks that maybe Faraday will decide that he wants to just go. That relief ebbs into a gut-wrenching feeling when he realizes that this would mean that then Vasquez will lose his company, but he thinks that this is going to happen anyway. If he goes now, things won't get more complicated.
Instead of leaving, though, he closes the door and it sounds like the loudest gunshot. There's a finality to that because now they have to talk, now Vasquez can't leave unless he does something rash and stupid like try and knock out Faraday. For all that Vasquez might be a little taller, he has nothing on Faraday's weight, so he doesn't think that he could do that without the element of surprise.
Then, that question. When Vasquez laughs, it's empty and hollow. It's the sound of a man who's been caught and knows he has to face the noose. He can't even lie, because Josiah has proven himself to be a quick mind with his Spanish -- his pronunciations clear, his comfort evident. Of course Faraday had been holding onto those words, and of course Josiah had translated, because the hijo di puta probably didn't want to say anything that might make Vasquez annoyed. Look how that's backfired.
Breathing in slowly, he can feel the way his stomach roils with wariness, not to mention the ache of his heart pounding so hard. He doesn't act like an asshole (even though he could) and point out that he's never actually lied to Faraday. He just never answered him properly when he'd asked for translations.
"When I call you cariño, it's something like honey or sweetheart. Dear. Querido, it's something of the same. Darling." He's not speaking to Faraday while he says this, but the wooden slats of the floor where he can hear the sounds of the downstairs filtering through. "Nene is...it's the same as the others, but more personal," he admits. For all that he'd used those words sometimes to tease and to taunt, he can't hide behind them anymore.
He'd used them with sincerity, happy that he could until now, when he cannot hide anymore behind the Spanish and Faraday knows what Vasquez has been saying all this time. He should apologize, but he doesn't feel sorry for saying them, only sorry that he got caught.
"Faraday," he gets out, trying to sound casual and light, starting a campaign to convince him that it means nothing (even though to him, it means everything, but he's willing to lie to keep what he's got). "It's nothing," he vows. "Really," he promises, finally looking up once he thinks he can maintain eye contact. "I was just poking fun, that's all," he swears, even though he knows that his argument can be knocked down as easy as a house of cards.
And there it is, that bit of clarification. Maybe a few moments ago, he could’ve been convinced that they were innocent endearments, like how Faraday was fond of calling folks “friend” or “amigo,” but with an explanation like that, he can hardly overlook things.
His pulse pounds in his ears, thunderous and near deafening, and he feels— wrong-footed. Off-balance. Almost light-headed, and isn’t that patently ridiculous, that he feels like he might faint like some delicate, swooning lady. He almost wants to laugh at himself for it, something panicked and helpless, but instead, he leans back against the door, using it to prop himself up.
Faraday drops the key onto the small table by the door, and it clatters dully against the worn wood. He scrubs his face with both hands, but when Vasquez starts to speak again, he glances up between his fingers. Studies him like he sitting across from Faraday at a card table.
Faraday calls him on the lie almost instantly, his voice accusing and annoyed. “Bullshit, Vasquez.”
His hands drop from his face, and he returns Vasquez’s gaze with a hardened, resolved expression. “I already told you not to lie to me.” His jaw clenches briefly, so tightly that he worries his teeth might shatter.
He doesn’t know what to do with this, if he’s honest. He had his suspicions, thought that maybe Vasquez might have flirted with him a bit in the months since the battle in Rose Creek, but Faraday had always assumed he was being absurd. Seeing things that weren’t there. Seeing things he wanted to see—
... Wait. “Wanted to see”?
Shit. What the hell is he thinking?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Faraday exhales sharply.
“... I don’t know what the hell to say,” he finally admits.
Vasquez digs through his pockets to unearth a cigarette, thinking that he needs something to do to fidget with his hands and his mouth so that he has something that will prevent him from saying anything else stupid. He wishes he were a better liar, but he thinks Faraday knows him too well to let him get away with any of this.
Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
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Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
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He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
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When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
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It’s both a relief and a giant disappointment when Vasquez is called away by his new “friend,” and Faraday grits his teeth with irritation. He throws back most of his glass – the flavor wasted on him, considering he was always more fond of drinking to get drunk, rather than drinking for flavor – and pours himself another share. He waits, glaring balefully at the doors to the kitchen, worry spiking sharply with how long it takes for Vasquez to return. They still had to be careful, regardless of the way they’re hissing at one another like wet cats; if that infuriating bastard got himself into trouble, Faraday would never forgive himself for allowing it to happen.
But Vasquez returns, two plates laden with food, and Faraday can’t help but eye it all warily, gaze flicking to the kitchen, when the barkeep makes his own exit. Is it his imagination, or does the man look slightly disappointed? And is it his imagination, or does the man cast Faraday an annoyed look, like he were some stone in the road impeding the other man’s progress? Faraday, in his usual way, working solely on reflex, casts the other man a bright, winning smile, which seems to shake the barkeep out of whatever mood he had fallen into.
“That new friend of yours don’t look too happy,” Faraday says, voice carefully idle, as he plucks up the roll from the proffered plate.
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They're already being snippy at one another, maybe if they do end up fighting or having troubles, it can all be at once before it gets resolved, instead of another fight at another time. "Same reason your Henrietta looked disappointed when you left town yesterday, probably," he replies, and though he might feel courageous to speak like this, his head is bowed down and his gaze is fixed on his fingers prying open a piece of bread.
Not so courageous when it comes to this after all.
Eventually, he peers up from his food so that he can reach for the whiskey, adding a splash to his glass so he can wet down the food. "His name is Josiah, he was very ... welcoming," Vasquez decides on the word for it. "That's all." His actions should speak for themselves, though. Instead of upstairs with Josiah in some back supply room, he's at the table eating dinner with Faraday. That's the choice he's made, and Faraday should be able to see that, even if sometimes, Vasquez suspects the man of overlooking the very obvious.
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He chews the words over, arching an eyebrow with the emphasis that Vasquez gives the word “welcoming,” and after a second or two, Faraday rocks back a little with sudden understanding.
“... Ah,” is about all he can manage, caught off-guard by the realization. He peers across the table, trying to study Vasquez’s face. A little difficult to do, with the way the other man has his head bowed.
“You... weren’t interested?” and he asks it as levelly as he can. The answer shouldn’t interest him as much as it does, but for whatever reason, he finds himself waiting a little anxiously for the response.
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He might as well finish speaking. "Things are different now," he says, glancing up at Faraday when he finds some strength. Though, he's not so sure why things are so different. He'd asked for the oil, thinking to have it for something just like this, but the minute a proposition lands at his feet and all he'd thought was, I'd rather spend the night playing cards with Faraday. Even if nothing ever happened, he'd rather be here.
Fighting and hissing at each other and taunting and teasing, this is where he wants to be. Shrugging his shoulder, he lets it fall, wondering why he's so wary when this would have come to light eventually.
Well, not all of it, but this part, where his preferences sometimes lie, that part, he thinks was inevitable. His feelings for Faraday? Not so likely to come out so easy. "Sometimes I'm interested in pretty Henriettas, with their soft curves and pretty eyes and smiles, who can make you feel good. Sometimes, it's a Josiah, who can pin you down and make you feel alive and strong and also good. Different good." His stomach roiling a little, he sets his plate in front of him to switch to a cigarette, as if he can somehow smoke his nerves away.
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Things are different now, Vasquez says, and Faraday wonders if he means the bounty on his head, or if he means the company he keeps, or if he means Faraday, in particular. And he wonders, more than that, if Vasquez finds it a hindrance. Wouldn't be the first time Faraday's made a nuisance of himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time his presence had been an unwelcome one; if Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he'd admit that he's suspected Vasquez would eventually tire of him.
(Most folks do.)
Vasquez's preferences hardly surprise him. Traveling as much as he has, Faraday's met more than a few men who shared those same particular interests. Faraday thinks he knows what he likes – dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp wit and a clever tongue. Like Henrietta, whose bell-like laughter rings out with the men she's amusing at their table. Like Maria, months and months ago, with her clever hands in a darkened room. Like Ethel before her, with a voice like a nightingale, singing in a crowded saloon.
He's not sure why he feels that bitter twinge in his gut, why something rakes at the back of his ribs when Faraday glances over at Josiah, busying himself with another order. He keeps it from showing, though, that mask of ease and vague amusement clinging to his face.
"Why not indulge?" is what Faraday hears himself asking, even if he wants to kick himself for it.
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What he can do is try and aggravate Faraday until he gets so angry, so furious, that maybe he forgets the question to begin with. He keeps asking himself the same question, why he won't go upstairs and indulge, and he thinks that he knows why.
Strangely, in the face of options lying and enraging Faraday, Vasquez opts instead for the truth. "I'm tired of something empty," is what he says, feeling exhausted. "Just as much as responsibility weights me down and scares me, Rose Creek and what happened showed me that if I die tomorrow, then I die without knowing what so many others do." Then again, he knows some of it, because he knows what he feels. He just doesn't have the experience of it to warm him on cold nights out on the road, aching with loneliness and touch-starved apart from when Faraday indulges him.
"Josiah, Henrietta, they're not what I want," he says, shaking his head vigorously as he smokes his cigarette, stretching his legs a little as if he's debating an escape he's going to make. "That's all, querido, leave it be," he coaxes tiredly, even though he suspects that's the last thing Faraday will do. "Maybe, sometime, after a fight, I will be so pent up and riled, then I will let someone take me in a back room." He shrugs as he says it. "Tonight? It's very rude to bring a lover back to a shared room, isn't it," he adds, setting aside his cigarette so he can stuff his face with food before he says anything more.
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(Because suddenly, he was worried that Vasquez might change his mind, might nod decisively and seek out Josiah’s company, as Faraday had proposed. The thought that Vasquez might say yes made his stomach churn for reasons he can hardly identify.)
Instead, Vasquez answers the question as Faraday had posed it to him. Often, Faraday is hardly concerned with how awkward his probing questions can be, but that was typically because he knew it wouldn’t chase him beyond the edges of town. This time, though, that bare snippet of honest, of earnestness, stuns Faraday into silence, and he stares at Vasquez from across the table.
He’s not sure he ever knew about Vasquez’s fear of responsibility, though Faraday surely relates to it – that strange, heaviness of knowing someone else depends on you, that weight of another person’s life resting on your shoulders. Faraday was certain that on the off-chance that he survived the fight in Rose Creek, he would surely shuck that yoke. But he hasn’t, because he’s still willingly sitting across from Vasquez, isn’t he?
At length, his gaze drops to his plate – still half-full with food, because the conversation has distracted him, has stolen his appetite. He frowns for a second or two before dragging his gaze up to Vasquez, and as the other man suspected, Faraday doesn’t leave it alone.
“What’s there to know?” and he asks it with obvious curiosity, head tilting a little as he watches Vasquez. “Seems to me you’ve been doin’ just fine for yourself.”
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Vasquez enjoys his head where it is, of course, so he's not going to do that. Still, he's going to have to say something or end up storming out and he's still eating, so he's not leaving until he's had his fill. "My parents, they had love," he says, sharing something that he hasn't told anyone. "To my father, my mother was his corazon, his everything. No matter what was taken from us, they had each other and they had me and my sisters. I grew up scared of that, because why would you want a person that you could never escape."
Then he'd met someone to make him realize it just takes the right person. He hates that he can't turn it off, hates that he still wants it.
"Sex is easy," he says dismissively, "giving your whole heart to someone and having them hold it in turn, keep them warm, love them," he exhales, thinking that it's not a life he'll ever get. "I don't know that. The best I've ever done is ..." Well, the best he's ever done is here, now. Settled by Faraday's bedside and waiting for him to heal, putting his hands on him to heal him, taunting and teasing him until he's falling over with laughter.
Shrugging, he lets that sentence fall away. "You're telling me you never wanted to be with someone as more than just sex?" he asks, even though he wishes he hadn't, because he's sure he won't like the answer, no matter what it is.
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Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”
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It's a miserable, painful possibility, and one that he's not looking forward to. "You weren't so charming then?" Vasquez can't help but tease with a huff, finishing the last of the food on his plate. "Your life would've been so different, I think, if she'd taken you in. Maybe you would be a doting husband, a father, with no adventure in his life at all."
Despite the private conversation, Josiah doesn't seem to read any tension between them, drifting over to clean the plate. Despite Vasquez's rejection earlier, he seems to be weathering it well enough, even if he's treating Vasquez a little like Faraday doesn't exist. "Taste good, doesn't it, handsome? Or should I say guapo?" he adds, teasing and pitched in a lower tone, trying to seem exotic and flirtatious by using the Spanish, a language he clearly knows given the way his mouth forms around the word.
As Vasquez freezes up, he doesn't think that it had been quiet enough, because there's no way Faraday didn't catch that. It's just one of the nicknames, but he has a terrible feeling that it's enough of a glance to get the gist.
"Very good food," he replies, brusque. "Do you want help with the dishes? I'll help," he decides, getting up and reaching out to take Faraday's plate, regardless of what's left on it, piling the dishes in his arms and leaving a befuddled Josiah standing there in his wake while Vasquez carts the dishes to the kitchen he'd seen before to escape what he's dreading comes next.
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His lips part to say as much, to tell Vasquez that he doesn’t have a single nerve in him capable of doting, but the infamous Josiah appears at that moment. Faraday schools his expression into something neutral and light – the usual mask he wears at card tables – even if it’s largely lost on the barkeep, considering he’s hardly looking Faraday’s way. Faraday continues to watch Josiah warily, though, vigilant even if his posture betrays none of it.
That changes in an instant, though, when those words slip past Josiah’s tongue, and Faraday’s gaze snaps to Vasquez in an instant – just in time to see how the other man freezes like he’s caught in the sights of a gun. Faraday’s mind races as Vasquez makes his hasty escape, still maintaining that relaxed attitude even if Josiah looks every bit as confounded as Faraday feels.
The two of them remain in silence for a long spell, staring at the kitchen where Vasquez had retreated, and Faraday breathes out a quiet laugh.
“Well, that was odd,” he says easily, shaking his head. He glances up at Josiah, flashing him a bright smile – his gambler smile, the smile he puts on when he’s trying to earn trust, just before he betrays it by swindling his marks out of their hard-earned money.
“You know Spanish, huh? Don’t think our mutual friend gets many compliments in his native tongue.”
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He looks lost, absently, as if he's wondering why calling a man handsome in his native tongue hasn't gone over so well, especially when there'd been a hint of something before.
"You don't speak it, then?" Josiah asks, judgmental and accusatory, like it's a failing on Faraday's part to keep Vasquez's company and not.
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“Picking up a little, here and there,” he offers calmly, even if he silently resents the tone the man has taken with him. Faraday’s used to some terrible service, but this hits a little closer to home than he appreciates. “Our mutual friend don’t teach me much.”
Mostly because Faraday willfully butchered what little he did know to get a rise out of the other man; the good Josiah hardly needs to know that, though, and Faraday shrugs his shoulders.
“I’ve heard a few words, though. Not sure what they mean.” Faraday pauses, as if struck by an idea, and brightens a little. “Say, what if I asked you to translate a few for me? You sound like you’re plenty knowledgeable, and I’d be much obliged for the help.”
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"What is it you need translations for?" There's a look on his face that seems to anticipate that it'll be insults.
Josiah does seem to tense a little, like he already suspects the words Faraday wants translated are more than that.
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There’s not time enough to parse it out right now, though, considering Vasquez can be back at any moment, or that Josiah could decide to chase after him or return to tending the bar. So Faraday keeps his relaxed, easy grin on his face, head tilting slightly.
“Just a few words,” he repeats, and he readjusts his hand, ticking off the words with his fingers as he goes. “Querido. Cariño. Nene. Know what they mean?”
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Some friend, is the clear thought that's running through his mind. "Darling. Dear. Sweetheart. Baby." The response is flat, with no emotion in his eyes. What little geniality he might have had has evaporated now that he has to give these translations.
Of course, whatever Josiah is feeling soon will become eclipsed. Vasquez has finished with the dishes, having stalled as long as he can, but he's on his way back when he hears Josiah speak in a hollow tone. "Must be someone pretty fond of you, if they're using endearments like that."
There's little to no guessing about what they're talking about, which gives Vasquez only a few options. He makes sure they can hear him coming with the drag of his boots, forcing himself to ignore his fear about what's coming next, deciding that it can't blow up in his face if he doesn't look at Faraday.
"Everything is clean," he says. "Thank you for the food," he says to Josiah, warmth in his voice despite the half-murderous look on his face for deciding to go and translate all those words for Faraday. He digs out a few coins to leave on the table, heart racing and head pounding as he tries to figure out his best route of escape -- get to the horse, load up, ride before he can get shot. Or maybe if he gets back to the room at the inn, there will be too many around for anything to happen. "I'm tired," is what he says, gesturing with little energy for the key. "I want to go lie down. Give me the key?"
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But the instant Josiah offers that explanation, Faraday’s expression goes slack, eyes wide and lips parting with surprise. To anyone else, it might be funny how he suddenly looks as though he’s been struck – hell, if he saw anyone looking the way he does right now, Faraday would likely howl with laughter – but there’s hardly anything funny about this, he thinks.
The truth is, Faraday doesn’t know how he feels, except like the ground has suddenly opened beneath him, and he’s spinning and falling reeling with nothing to latch onto.
Even with Vasquez making his reentrance obvious, Faraday still jumps a little when he arrives, startled like a child caught stealing sweets. He ought to thank Josiah for his assistance, just for the sake of politeness, but Faraday has completely forgotten the bartender is even there, focused as he is on Vasquez.
For a long moment, Faraday gapes at Vasquez like he’s a complete stranger – and at this point, he might as well be, for as how thoroughly turned around as Faraday’s feeling. His request for the key goes unanswered for a long moment, the words sitting atop Faraday’s mind like oil on water. When the question finally sinks in, Faraday slowly reaches for the key in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the warmed metal in a near boneless grasp.
He starts to reach across the table to hand it over, but instead, he draws it close to himself, gripping it a little more tightly. He licks his lips, trying desperately to find his voice.
“I think I’ll go with you,” Faraday croaks out – apparently he found his voice in a brittle, hollow state, given how he sounds. But now that he’s made the decision, Faraday lurches to his feet, his chair’s legs squealing and clattering as they scrape across the wooden floor.
The noise startles him out of his stupor, at least a little, and when he comes back to himself, he stares hard at Vasquez. And in a tone that brooks no argument, he says, “You and me are overdue for a talk.”
And with that, he turns to head back to the inn, expecting Vasquez to follow.
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His cowardly instincts tell him to run when Faraday's back is to him, but he'll never make it out of town like that without calling attention to himself and between an uncomfortable ending of a friendship and being shot in the back, he'll still take the former.
Trudging towards the inn as slowly as he can, Vasquez chides himself mentally. He should have known this day would come, because he couldn't make himself shut up when it had come to those stupid nicknames for Faraday. He'd hidden behind the Spanish as he let his affections flow freely, hidden under a thin guise. It's time to face the consequences of this, but he has to wonder if the translations haven't unearthed everything else.
All those things that Faraday hadn't been seeing because he wasn't looking -- Vasquez's jealousy, his willingness to get his hands on him to help, the pathetic way he stares at him in the embers of a fire. Smarter men would keep a hand on their gun, but Vasquez feels chastised and guilty, but not ashamed and not regretful. While Faraday knows now, Vasquez wouldn't change anything. Shame it has to come to an end like this.
Ignoring the woman at the inn when he arrives, ten steps behind Faraday, he takes the stairs and follows him into the room where he makes a point of unclipping his gun belt and setting it on the table. It's a deliberate showing, a pointed gesture that says he's an unarmed man. From there, he sinks down to sit on the corner of the bed, burying his head in his hands while he waits for Faraday to start shouting.
"So?" he prompts, hoarse and wanting to get this over with. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."
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They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”
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Instead of leaving, though, he closes the door and it sounds like the loudest gunshot. There's a finality to that because now they have to talk, now Vasquez can't leave unless he does something rash and stupid like try and knock out Faraday. For all that Vasquez might be a little taller, he has nothing on Faraday's weight, so he doesn't think that he could do that without the element of surprise.
Then, that question. When Vasquez laughs, it's empty and hollow. It's the sound of a man who's been caught and knows he has to face the noose. He can't even lie, because Josiah has proven himself to be a quick mind with his Spanish -- his pronunciations clear, his comfort evident. Of course Faraday had been holding onto those words, and of course Josiah had translated, because the hijo di puta probably didn't want to say anything that might make Vasquez annoyed. Look how that's backfired.
Breathing in slowly, he can feel the way his stomach roils with wariness, not to mention the ache of his heart pounding so hard. He doesn't act like an asshole (even though he could) and point out that he's never actually lied to Faraday. He just never answered him properly when he'd asked for translations.
"When I call you cariño, it's something like honey or sweetheart. Dear. Querido, it's something of the same. Darling." He's not speaking to Faraday while he says this, but the wooden slats of the floor where he can hear the sounds of the downstairs filtering through. "Nene is...it's the same as the others, but more personal," he admits. For all that he'd used those words sometimes to tease and to taunt, he can't hide behind them anymore.
He'd used them with sincerity, happy that he could until now, when he cannot hide anymore behind the Spanish and Faraday knows what Vasquez has been saying all this time. He should apologize, but he doesn't feel sorry for saying them, only sorry that he got caught.
"Faraday," he gets out, trying to sound casual and light, starting a campaign to convince him that it means nothing (even though to him, it means everything, but he's willing to lie to keep what he's got). "It's nothing," he vows. "Really," he promises, finally looking up once he thinks he can maintain eye contact. "I was just poking fun, that's all," he swears, even though he knows that his argument can be knocked down as easy as a house of cards.
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His pulse pounds in his ears, thunderous and near deafening, and he feels— wrong-footed. Off-balance. Almost light-headed, and isn’t that patently ridiculous, that he feels like he might faint like some delicate, swooning lady. He almost wants to laugh at himself for it, something panicked and helpless, but instead, he leans back against the door, using it to prop himself up.
Faraday drops the key onto the small table by the door, and it clatters dully against the worn wood. He scrubs his face with both hands, but when Vasquez starts to speak again, he glances up between his fingers. Studies him like he sitting across from Faraday at a card table.
Faraday calls him on the lie almost instantly, his voice accusing and annoyed. “Bullshit, Vasquez.”
His hands drop from his face, and he returns Vasquez’s gaze with a hardened, resolved expression. “I already told you not to lie to me.” His jaw clenches briefly, so tightly that he worries his teeth might shatter.
He doesn’t know what to do with this, if he’s honest. He had his suspicions, thought that maybe Vasquez might have flirted with him a bit in the months since the battle in Rose Creek, but Faraday had always assumed he was being absurd. Seeing things that weren’t there. Seeing things he wanted to see—
... Wait. “Wanted to see”?
Shit. What the hell is he thinking?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Faraday exhales sharply.
“... I don’t know what the hell to say,” he finally admits.
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Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
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